


at last, i surrender to the tides

by sailingthenightsea



Series: this is destiny [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Found Family, Post-Season/Series 01, THAT BEING SAID, What are ya gonna do, also one gross comment is said, and ended up 3k in with a lot more plot stuff than anticipated, and said rando gets what he deserves, ciri and geralt feels, come in and have a nice warm drink and suffer with the rest of us, enjoy, fair warning, i went in wanting two things to happen, not too much and only in regards to a rando, nothing too too bad tho i'm saving that good violence for later, once again this is just geralt and ciri living their best lives, that's my brand y'all, there be violence in this one kids, this got a bit out of hand ngl, well sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22332391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailingthenightsea/pseuds/sailingthenightsea
Summary: “What if someone follows us?”“I’ll kill them.”“What if you can’t?”“I can.”“But what if youcan’t?”He stops, kneels in front of where she’s sitting on the bed. “Then you run. You run and if someone grabs you, you start screaming and you don’t stop until they’re on the ground, do you understand?”
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion (mentioned), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg (mentioned)
Series: this is destiny [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594753
Comments: 43
Kudos: 362





	at last, i surrender to the tides

**Author's Note:**

> part three!!!
> 
>  **warning:** the rando mentioned in the tags says something gross abt ciri and geralt's relationship but then he gets what's coming to him so it's all good

They stay at four different inns in four different towns during that first week. Neither of them able to get the static out from under their skin long enough to feel settled or safe in one place for more than a couple nights. They head out for the fifth a day earlier than planned because of the lingering looks some men in a tavern were casting Ciri’s way. Whether they were just creeps drunk enough to watch a young girl with a witcher or men who recognized her, neither wanted to stick around to find out.

It’s dark when they reach the fifth town, so Geralt finds Roach somewhere to stay before leading Ciri to the next inn. She’s not nearly as exhausted as she had been those first few nights, but she still doesn’t wander out of his reach. He can’t quite tell if it’s because she’s afraid someone will attack her or if she thinks he might disappear when she’s not looking. He does his best to show he won’t in case it is the latter; he never leaves the room while she’s sleeping and always checks to make sure she can see him wherever they are. It helps soothe the anxiety lodged in his chest, as well, making sure she’s always close enough to reach if something goes wrong.

He watches as she takes in this new room, but her face remains impassive. After a moment, she moves forward, hangs her mostly empty bag on the bed post.

Two towns ago, they had agreed her clothes stood out too much to blend in as a peasant. Surprisingly, it had been her who brought it up. He’d stood back as she chose two tunics, two trousers, and a cloak—all plain and easily overlooked. She’d taken the clasp off of the blue cloak before trading the clothes she had been wearing for the new ones. That next morning, before they’d left, she’d plaited her hair plainly, so that it hung straight down her back, hidden by the new cloak.

Since then, she’s carried the extra clothes in a small well-worn leather bag he’d gotten for her when she’d had her back turned. It was nothing compared to the fineries she was accustomed to, but it had made her beam at him nonetheless.

She pulls her gloves off, sheds her cloak, and sits on the edge of the bed to unlace her boots. He follows suit, leaving his swords resting against the wall by the door and setting his pack on the small dresser opposite the bed. His armor is set next to his bag and both of their cloaks are hung on the hook on the back of the door.

He laughs as she flops dramatically onto the bed, letting out a loud sigh as she bounces a couple times. She’s smiling as she turns her head to meet his fond yellow eyes.

After a moment, the smile fades and she sits up, crossing her legs, facing him. “Can I ask you a question?” He nods. “If your job is to protect me, then where have you been all my life? If you invoked the Law of Surprise, why did you never claim me? Why had I never even heard of you until Nilfgaard invaded Cintra?”

Her voice isn’t accusatory—though it would be justified—but he still has to stop himself from flinching as guilt settles heavily in his chest. He takes a breath. “I was scared. I think your grandmother was, too, after losing your mother.”

“Scared of what?”

“Destiny? Ruining your life and getting you killed, for me. Losing the last of her family, for your grandmother.” He sighs. “You know I invoked the Law of Surprise, but you don’t know why. I never stuck around for the details, but your father saved your grandfather and claimed the Law of Surprise. When he heard it was your mother, he never claimed his right, but they met and fell in love anyway. So he showed up at the betrothal feast for your mother—except he was cursed, so your grandmother tried to have him killed. I saved his life. And as a rather poorly planned joke, I said I’d take the Law of Surprise as payment, expecting a litter of puppies or an early harvest. Regardless, I’d no intention of claiming it. But then your mother was sick and revealed she was pregnant.”

Her eyebrows are furrowed as she studies him intently, taking in every word. “So what’d you do?”

He laughs humorlessly. “I ran away. And I wasn’t ever planning on coming back until I realized Nilfgaard was marching toward Cintra. I came to protect you, to get you as far away from there as I could until the threat was gone. Then I’d bring you back and we’d go our separate ways—”

“You were going to leave me?” Among all the different emotions battling for dominance in her expression, hurt is the one he sees most prominently.

“Ciri, this life— _my_ life—it isn’t the kind of life any child deserves. So, yes, when I went to Cintra to find you, I never meant for it to be permanent.”

“What about now?” she demands.

He sighs. “As long as Nilfgaard is a threat, you’re safest with me.”

She gapes at him, stands up from her place on the bed, squares her shoulders. “So—what? When it’s over, you’ll just drop me off at the first orphanage you see? Send me back to that farm, so that woman can have the daughter she’s always wanted?”

He knows that’s what he should do, but the thought has panic gripping his lungs. “Ciri—”

“ _No_ —you– you’ve left me to wonder why I have this emptiness lodged in my chest my _whole life_. And then you swoop in, save me, give me something to hold onto, but just until you can ease your guilty conscience?!”

“ _Cirilla_ —”

“How could you just—”

“My life isn’t– you’d never be—”

“BUT IT ISN’T JUST _YOUR LIFE_ ANYMORE,” she shouts, and he freezes. “It _isn’t_. You’re my _destiny_ and I’m _yours_. Even if there were no more destiny, Geralt, you’re the closest thing to family I’ve got left.” Then, softer, “And I’m glad it’s you.”

He takes a breath, and another.

Quietly, she says, “I love you. And I think you love me too. Or else you wouldn’t try to make me smile all the time or take off my boots after I fall asleep or worry so much about everything.”

He takes a breath, and, “I do,” he says quietly, “love you. That’s what scares me so badly.”

“But _why_?”

His eyes skim over her, and he feels so fucking much it’s almost like being numb. “Because if I love you, then it’ll destroy me if I lose you.”

Her face softens. “Then don’t lose me,” she says like it’s that simple.

 _Maybe it is_ , a voice whispers. _Maybe that’s enough_.

 _Okay_ , he thinks, _okay, Destiny, here’s where you get to prove yourself_.

And he takes the leap. “If you’re going to live the life of a witcher, you’re going to have to learn to fight. And get used to lackluster sleeping conditions.”

Slowly, she smiles and it’s small and it’s blinding. The line of her shoulders drops. A tear slips down her face and she laughs wetly and tries to scrub it away but another falls and another and—

He crosses the room, folds his arms around her, and she cries. Once again, he is reminded how young she is. He wants to hide her away from the violence and fighting, but he started his training much younger than she is. Her grandmother was her age and leading an army into battle.

And he knows—he knows she is stronger than most grown men. Knows better than to underestimate her.

Knows this is far better than leaving her defenseless.

“Please don’t make me lose you too,” she begs softly into his shoulder.

“Never,” he vows into her hair and it is the truth it is the truth it is written in stone it is carved into his bones.

Even if it took him until now to admit it.

She clings to him—his shirt clenched in her fists—like she doesn’t quite believe him. So he tells her in the only way he can. He lifts her up and she wraps her arms around his shoulders, buries her face in the crook of his neck. It’s four steps to the bed, where he sits and lets her hold on to him, lets her mourn everything she’s lost.

Eventually, the tears stop and her breathing evens out. Carefully, gently, he lowers her onto the mattress, pulls the blankets over her, brushes the hair out of her face.

He is selfish and he is selfish and he loves this child with everything in him. Like a spark to drought stricken fields—sudden and inevitable and all-consuming. A large part of him didn’t think he could, didn’t think there was enough of him left to love like this.

Before Jaskier and Yennefer, he’d thought there was no love left in him at all.

Back then he’d almost believed the lie, that a witcher couldn’t feel anything. He’d been safe, wrapped in numbness and armor.

Until Jaskier and his bloody songs had crashed into his life and refused to walk away, seeing through every gruff word and cold shoulder. And Yenn, tearing through his world, with her power and her love and her soft smiles that made him feel safe in the early morning light.

Then Cirilla. Bright and strong and brave and so much like him it takes his breath away.

He sits in the chair in the corner of the room, listening to her breathing and the patter of rain as he cleans his weapons and armor.

At some point, he must have drifted off because he wakes to small distressed sounds that immediately have him ready for a fight. It takes a split second to get his bearings and to realize the source of the noise is Ciri’s apparent bad dream. He starts to stand, to wake her, but before he can, she says, “No, please don’t—no!”

She shoots up, eyes wide, and then—

“NO!!” and it rattles the windows, knocks the wind from his chest, echoes in the silence.

There is a moment where neither of them move, but then she claps her hands over her mouth, tears welling in her eyes, and he’s up, reaching, holding.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Shh, it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re _okay_ ,” he says—promises. He gives her this for as long as he can before he pulls away, stands. “It’s almost dawn. We’ll leave now.”

She watches, desperate and scared, as he packs their things. “What if someone heard?”

“That’s why we’re leaving. No need to stick around for people to ask questions.”

“What if someone follows us?”

“I’ll kill them.”

“What if you can’t?”

“I can.”

“But what if you _can’t_?”

He stops, kneels in front of where she’s sitting on the bed. “Then you run. You run and if someone grabs you, you start screaming and you don’t stop until they’re on the ground, do you understand?”

She’s trembling and he knows this is scaring her, but he needs her to get it. She starts shaking her head. “Geralt, I—”

“Cirilla, _do you understand me_? You go and you don’t look back. No matter what.”

“I can’t,” she half sobs.

“Yes, you can. You _can_. But as long as I’m breathing, I will do everything I can to make sure you don’t ever have to.”

A sob and she launches herself forward, wrapping her arms around him. “It’s my fault,” she cries. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He pulls far enough back to look into her eyes. “Nothing is wrong with you, Ciri. You have your mother’s gift.”

Her eyes go wide, then her brow furrows. “What?” she asks breathlessly.

Not for the first time he swallows his frustration at how in the dark the queen had kept Ciri. While this girl was stronger than most people he’s ever known, she’s vulnerable because her grandmother had underestimated her.

“I’ll tell you everything I know—I promise—but right now, we need to move.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, where she searches his face, trying to decide whether he’s telling the truth or trying to keep her in the dark like everyone else in her life so far. He holds his breath, stays still, knows that this matters so much more than it seems. And then, she nods, chooses to trust him.

It doesn’t take more than a handful of minutes to repack their things and then Geralt’s tightening the last of his armor and Ciri’s fastening the old clasp she’d sewn onto her new cloak. She fumbles with her gloved fingers, but before she can pull one off with her teeth, he says, “Here, let me,” and gets it clasped in one try.

She smiles softly. “Thank you.”

He just nods in reply, but she understands him well enough already that the response doesn’t feel curt.

With a final glance around the room (and then at her), he pushes the door open and ushers her into the hall. She starts forward, but pauses when he sets a hand on her shoulder. He passes her, keeping in front so that he’s between her and anyone they may meet.

They’re passing through the tavern on the first floor of the inn and Geralt foolishly thinks they’d gotten lucky that no one had come to investigate.

Then, “That scream wasn’t your girl, was it now, Witcher?”

Geralt runs cold then hot, and he feels Ciri stiffen beside him. A figure moves halfway out of the shadows and Geralt’s yellow eyes snap to the sword dangling carelessly from the man’s hand. An empty laugh and Geralt’s own hand drifts to the hilt of his sword.

“Now you wouldn’t be housing one of your monsters in a fine establishment such as this, eh?” The man’s speech is clear, but he still reeks of ale. Geralt reaches his free hand behind him, reassuring both himself and Ciri that she’s safe he’s between her and any danger. As he should be.

“See, now, I’ve been saying it for years: how can we trust a filthy mutant to hunt monsters? It’s only a matter of time before you turn against us and join your own kind.” The man tightens his grip on his sword, sneers, spits, “And with a pretty little thing like that to fuck, can we really blame you?”

Geralt growls and he is rage is rage is rage. The man raises his sword in enough time to block his first blow, his second, his third. There is only metal on metal. There is only the beat of his heart (steady) and the pace of his breath (even). Somewhere behind him, Ciri cries out, stumbles backward, out of range of their blades.

Swing. Block. Parry. He smells the man’s blood and knows his sword connected, but it’s not enough for the man to go down.

The man is good with a broadsword, clearly well trained. Experienced. But Geralt can smell his sweat and his fear and he smiles. Swing. Block. Swing. The copper tang in the air grows heavier as his blade strikes the man’s leg.

Swing. Block. Swing. Block. An opening and _swing_.

The man gasps and it’s strangled, twisted in agony. The soft sound of blood dripping onto the wooden floor. The scent thick. Then thicker when Geralt pulls his sword from the man’s gut. Scarlet covers the man’s lips as they part, form silent words—a prayer, perhaps, though for that it is far too late.

He falls. Dead.

Geralt sighs, halfheartedly wipes the blood off his sword with the man’s tunic, dragging the blade against the coarse fabric once twice before sheathing it. Then he digs through his coin purse, leaves enough to cover the minimal damage to the inn on the table closest to the body.

He turns to check on Ciri, more than half expecting her to be watching him in horror, when she slams into him, hard enough to make him stumble back a step. On instinct, he wraps his arms around her trembling form. By choice, he squeezes her tight, presses his lips into her hair. After a brief moment, he pushes gently back, rubbing his hands up and down her arms as he checks her for any sign of harm.

His voice is rough, soft, and urgent as he asks, “Are you okay?”

She looks at him incredulously, says, “Yes. Are _you_?”

Something tightens loosens shifts in his chest when he hears the same fear in her voice as was in his own— _are you okay are you alright are you hurt are you safe are you safe are you safe_.

“Yes,” he swears, “I’m fine. Not even a scratch.”

She blows out a relieved breath, nodding. Then her eyes flick down to the body just a few feet away. He expects disgust fear shock horror, but she just grimaces mildly, more at the mess than at the death itself. Not for the first time he wonders how much she left out about the week and a half she spent on her own and on the run.

Looking back up at him, she says, “We should go.” And he nods, guides her to the door, out of it, and across the dirt road to where Roach is boarded.

She’s silent but for a soft greeting to Roach as they saddle up and ride out of the little town. When she speaks again, it’s so quiet the words are almost lost to the wind—likely would have been if he were human—but he catches them.

“He was wrong, you know. You’re not a monster, Geralt. You’re _good_.”

Warmth. _Love_ , he thinks. His voice is a low rumble in the still woods, “As are you.” A beat of silence and he frowns. “You do know that, right, Ciri? You’re not a monster.”

She sniffles and his heart clenches. “I’m scared that I am,” she whispers.

He closes his eyes against the memory of another princess from a long time ago who thought she was a monster too. Who didn’t know how to be anything but what people believed her to be. A breath, then steady and sure, he says, “Powers and mutations aren’t what make people into monsters; the choices they make are what determine whether they are good or bad. And you, Cirilla, care far too much about others to ever be a monster. Don’t ever let ignorant fools tell you what you are.”

“But Cintra fell and everyone’s gone. Without that, without them, with these powers—what _am_ I?”

“You are mine,” he says simply. “And I am yours.”

_And maybe that’s enough._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! i hope the pace wasn't too fast! let me know! i'm plotting this out loosely, so i'm hoping it doesn't read like i'm just throwing stuff together.
> 
> comments are held near and dear and kudos are watched very carefully so pls if you liked it enough to stick around this long, drop a <3 and maybe even say hello! each one makes my day!!
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](https://sailingthenightsea.tumblr.com) :)


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